


Be Yourself

by umbrafix



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Even though now she pretends to be all law-abiding FBI agent, F/M, Lizzie was secretly a super thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU of 1x14, Madeline Pratt, in which Lizzie has more past experience than just petty crimes. In fact, she pulled some pretty major heists in her younger years. How exactly does Red know about that? And how does she react?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> They never explicitly say what Liz’s criminal history is (although I’m not current on the show, so it’s possible they delve into it more later), so here I’m choosing to make it… more high scale.
> 
> This does rely on you having seen the episode in question, as I'm not going to rehash it beyond a couple of lines. In case you did so quite a while ago, here's a quick summary: 
> 
> Red outs Lizzie as having some kind of thieving experience in order to use her in a heist at the Syrian embassy to get an effigy as a way of trapping a Blacklister, Madeline Pratt. Lizzie gets all dressed up, and there's dancing and smiling and did I mention the dancing?

“Because you never committed a crime, or because you were never been caught?” Ressler asks.

 

“Yes,” Liz says firmly, slightly impatient. “I believe my work speaks for itself. Sir,” and now she appeals directly to Cooper, “I can do this.”

 

Her tone will probably be taken as impertinent, but what it’s actually rooted in she can’t explain even to herself. Her feelings at the moment are a mixed jumble of fear and exasperation and anger. Determination. Pride.

 

Determination is what wins out, because if they can do this it will be worth it.

 

The pride… she’s not willing to do more than admit to the existence of that hint of pride, because it shames her, and because she’s going to have to play this so, so carefully. 

 

Cooper has given a slight smile at her answer, seemingly amused and intrigued by the situation. She’s happy to work with that, to seem competent but harmless.

 

At the moment she is protected by the shadow of the system, by them all assuming that if there was anything really important in her past then they would know about it. Reddington’s words didn’t give them much to go on, so at the moment they must be thinking shoplifting or pickpocketing. Breaking and entering maybe, but limited to petty larceny.

 

All of which she’s done, of course, but she’d moved onto bigger things in her time.

 

She smiles back at Cooper, the pull of muscles feeling stiff and unnatural on her face, and then she has to get the hell out of there before she blows.

 

Damn Reddington. Damn him.

 

\--------------

 

“Tell her about Omaha,” has Liz’s eyes flicking between Red and Madeline Pratt, and she doesn’t know where he’s going with this because she’s never been to Omaha. Most likely he’s just giving her a chance to grift, but it could be a message of some kind.

 

She’s been trying to work out how much he knows.

 

It wasn’t a shot in the dark, his comment about her thieving skills, but it wasn’t detailed either. He could genuinely not know more than her few outings with friends to the mall when she was twelve, slipping small items of value into her pockets, bumping into people the way Sam had taught her and fingering their wallets easily out of their pockets. She has no idea how he’d know even that; in fact maybe it’s less likely because who the hell would have told him?

 

The alternative is much more dangerous.

 

Her relationship with Reddington is always precarious, a constant rocking back and forth in which he holds information about her past and the ability to deliver criminals, and she has some unknown importance to him, even if she can’t figure out what the hell it is, and the ability to walk away if he pisses her off too much.

 

So far, the balance has held, just. She has been willing to continue because it’s  _worth_  it, the work that they do.

 

But if he knows this, if he has  _this_  to hold over her head… it triggers a much more personal, primal fear deep in her belly, one which hisses  _defend_  and has her desperately planning how to escape a trap. She’s worried she’ll react in a way which will be completely out of proportion if he  _doesn’t_  know, and tell him far too much.

 

And so she comes back again to needing to find out exactly how much he does know, so that she can prepare accordingly.

 

She blurs her way through the rest of the conversation with Madeline,  _competent but harmless_. That has to be how she’ll play everyone on this, Cooper, Reddington, and Madeline Pratt. In this particular game, they are  _all_ the mark.

 

 

\---------------

 

They are dancing, sweeping back and forth across a dizzying space of glamourous couples. It will be several minutes until she is free to make for the door to the corridor, so she forces herself to relax into Red’s arms. Their hold is strong and firm, giving an illusion of support, of safety, but she knows it is just that. Nothing but an illusion; everything about him a lie.

 

He’s all smiles and effortless charm, delighting in having pulled her into this situation, and were things other than they are perhaps she would allow herself to be charmed. But this is a man who has caused a chasm to rupture between herself and her husband, who has led to her shattering her dreams of a child and a family; who possibly knows secrets about her which he could use to leverage her compliance in just about anything.

 

“How did you know about Omaha?” she asks, and is proud of the way her voice curls in shyly bemused curiosity.

 

“I didn’t,” he answers with a chuckle.

 

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

 

His eyes gleam. “Well it was a heartwarming story; the night manager in the alley.”

 

The taste in her mouth becomes unpleasant. Not that she hasn’t flirted with people for business before, but giving a guard a blowjob in an alley is far below her standards, and it hurts her professional (her  _other_ professional) pride to have him believe such a thing.

 

“I made it up,” she confesses, voice slightly uncertain even as she gives him a small, pleased smile and he laughs again.

 

She slants a look at him up through her eyelashes as though seeking his approval, and she’s _playing him_ , playing  _Reddington_ , and nothing has ever felt so dangerous or so thrilling and  _why hasn’t she tried this before_?

 

His fingers flex on her wrist, for some reason adding to the thrill, and she forces herself back, forces herself not to get carried away. This particular target would be extremely high risk to go with the high reward, and she’s not sure yet if these are stakes she can afford.

 

“I was wondering why you said Omaha?” she continues after a moment.

 

“It seemed like a safe choice.” His face creases in a knowing smile. “I didn’t think you’d ever been there.”

 

She searches his face, raising an eyebrow. “I haven’t,” she confirms neutrally.

 

The music that they are dancing to draws to a close, and there is a beat of several seconds before the orchestra begins anew. They stand still, a strange frozen moment where he does not release her, where she does not shrug off the awkwardness of it with a grimace or a grin. Their looks are slow, measuring, and Liz knows that she should be afraid but her heart is thudding with something entirely different from fear.

 

The first strains of the violin sweep over them, and he moves her back and away into the flow again. A more familiar expression slips onto his face, masking the honest fascination and wariness which she had seen there for a moment.

 

A minute later, a minute in which she guiltily allows herself to enjoy his expertise at dancing, at making her feel graceful and beautiful, he seamlessly picks up the thread of their conversation. “More importantly,” he murmurs, “I didn’t think you’d ever been there on a job.”

 

There is a rush of adrenaline through her system, an instant activation of her fight or flight response. His eyes are watching her closely, monitoring her for her response, so she clamps down fiercely on showing anything at all.

 

“I haven’t had that many jobs,” she says artlessly. “Before the FBI there was only-“

 

“Don’t be disingenuous, Lizzie.” The disappointment in his voice brings her up short, but she only blinks at him in apparent puzzlement. “I had rather hoped we could have a grown up conversation about this.”

  

She drops the act in a heartbeat, and there is ice in her tone as she replies. “Would this follow the pattern of our usual conversations, where you refuse to tell me anything and then sneak around behind my back arranging things to your own benefit?” Things that will hurt me, she doesn’t say, but the sting is in her words nonetheless.

 

“What would you like to know, Lizzie?”

 

The noise she makes is more irritation and hurt than laughter. “And I’m supposed to believe you’ll give me an honest answer?”

 

His eyes darken a little, his hands guide her closer so that she can feel the heat of his body radiating in the diminishing space between them. She carefully tucks away the knowledge that he seems disturbed by her lack of faith in him. She’s accused him of a lot worse, before, and he’s taken it without flinching, but this time…

 

“I’ve told you I’ve never lied to you, Lizzie. I wasn’t intending to start now.”

 

“Even if I believed that-” which she’s not sure she can ever allow herself to, no matter her doubts about Tom “-there’s a lot you feel free  _not_ to tell me.”   

 

It’s instinctive, the urge to pull away, to retreat, and this time she allows it full reign. His fingers catch at hers but she slips free, taking a step back and crossing her arms across her chest. Instinctive, yes, but also useful, because Reddington knows body language - will easily read her posture as defensive - and in the mood he seems to be in at the moment she predicts he will try to placate her.

 

His hands come up as though in surrender, fingertips curled slightly as though he were still trying to hold onto her. He makes no other move though, no apology, no promise to tell her everything from now on – which she didn’t realise she wanted so badly until she is now abruptly denied it.

 

She redirects her gaze to the floor, and stubbornly ignores the slight burning sensation at the corners of her eyes. Talking to Red and expecting the truth, hoping he’ll finally tell her the answers he keeps denying her, is somewhat akin to throwing herself against a brick wall. Over time she’s acquired grazes from that wall, bruises, but she can’t stop herself from lunging at it time and time again.

 

The space between them feels too far and not far enough all at once. Other dancers brush past them, some with sharp glares for the disruption, but they roll straight off of her. This isn’t what she’s supposed to be doing, of course; she’s supposed to be blending in, not attracting notice.

 

When he holds out a hand to her, his gaze quietly asking, she allows her spine to bend and her shoulders to soften. Allows him to reel her back in.

 

This time he tucks her up against him, bringing their bodies into full contact before she can resist. Heat steals across her face; a blush is the one reaction she’s never been able to master. Luckily he can’t see her, she’s looking over his shoulder, but before she can recover he turns his head slightly and his lips brush against the top of her ear.

 

“ _Red_ ,” she snaps quietly, because her other option is to haul back and slap him.

 

He seems completely undeterred. “One question then, Lizzie, about this case, which I shall answer honestly and completely.”

 

Her blush has grown fiercer at the movement of his soft lips against her, at the stirring of his breath in the hair falling down her neck. There’s a momentary struggle to process, to understand, and then an absolute flood of possibilities.

 

She could ask him what his angle is, what he wants from this case. She could ask him about Madeline Pratt. Both of those are practical options, which the FBI agent in her would support. They are instantly dismissed.

 

Two questions stand out in her mind, both of them burning pillars of  _need to know_.

 

The first, what does he know about her ‘criminal’ past? And the second, why did he bring this up with Cooper and the team?

 

At first she was almost tempted to believe that he staged this whole Blacklister around exposing her past, but she knows him too well to think that’s all there is to it. Still, there must have been a reason for him to choose this method of going about things. While she allows herself many foolish illusions about Reddington, she can’t deny that he’s exceedingly skilled in working out plans to get what he wants. He could have come up with another way to get the effigy, if he’d wanted to. One which didn’t involve her ‘thieving’ skills.

 

She doesn’t know which question to choose, which is more important. Does she want to know how much of a threat he is to her in terms of what he has to wield, or in terms of how likely he is to wield it?

 

Tilting her head slightly, her cheek brushes against his. A calculated risk, since now he’ll feel the heat of her blush, but she can’t let him do all of the manoeuvring here. “Why don’t you answer the question you think I most want to ask?”

 

He hums, considering, _interested_. He likes puzzles and games, she thinks; she should set them for him more often.

 

It’s an opportunity for him to escape entirely, to say something like, ‘Well, I think you should have worn a different pair of shoes,’ but she doesn’t think he will. He knows it’s a test, and she’s hoping he’s feeling competitive enough to want to do well in it.

 

“I know that there was a  _fascinating_ spate of high end burglaries and thefts almost twenty years ago,” he says finally. She sways with him in the dance, his voice rolling over her, waiting him out in silence. “Priceless art and jewels. Secure vaults. Some rather interesting secrets. The culprits were never identified or caught. It was suspected to be a group of three or four, I believe. The papers never connected the cases, the thieves were far too clever for that, but the insurance investigators eventually did.”

 

His hand moves from her waist, lazily gliding up her arm until he can brush the hair away from her ear. “They had a name for them. The Jackdaws.”

 

All of the muscles in her stomach clench; she tucks her face closer against his and stares out blindly through the couples spinning past her.

 

Oh, how they’d laughed at that name once, long ago.

 

“It remained a mystery, of course; the crimes stopped, the culprits slipped away. But I have a very good friend who used to tell me stories, and some of them corresponded surprisingly well with heists this group were involved with. Far too well for chance. He never mentioned any of them by name, but certain things were just…” Reddington gives a quick bark of a laugh, and then a click of his tongue. “One of the things he said in particular just… _resonated_. You see, he was so _delighted_ at pulling the hoods over so many people’s eyes when one of the team was only a teenage girl.

 

“What do you think to that?”

 

His hand has fallen to her back, between her shoulder blades, and it feels like a cage. He flexes it slightly, and her body turns with it, her head drawing back a little.

 

Seeing his face, his eyes, makes it a thousand times worse, because it suddenly feels like he really  _knows_ her, the way no one does. In a way not even Sam does, not even Tom.

 

It’s a horrible feeling, and a wonderful one.

 

“I-“ she starts, dry mouthed, but he shushes her with the slightest movement of his lips.

 

Before she has time to take umbrage, he murmurs, “I have no evidence, Lizzie. Truth be told, I wanted the opportunity to see you in action, although I realise this isn’t your usual situation.”

 

She only realises her brows have drawn together in a frown when he smooths over one with his thumb. Too late, she jerks her head back, and he gives her a satisfied smirk. “Also,” he adds more smugly, “I felt your colleagues need reminding that you have talents of your own, that you aren’t just a neatly starched FBI cut-out for their use.”

 

She stares at him for a moment, her head still unnaturally reared back, and tries to weigh the truth of his words.

 

“That’s the last thing they need reminding of,” she says shortly. “I’m under enough scrutiny just from you choosing me, not to mention the questions I ended up raising about Tom. What on earth made you think that hinting I’m a criminal would make them trust me?”

 

“You don’t need them to trust you, Lizzie, you need them to respect you. You’ve been playing little-girl-swept-along-by-events, but that’s already cracking at the seams, and it’s just not _you_. Harold has been having some interesting discussions – no, don’t ask me how I know – on your worth to the team and whether this is worth the risk.”

 

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want to be worth anything to the team? You could work with someone else, and I could get back to my  _life_ ,” she says bitingly.

 

His look is pitying. “That’s the last thing you want though, isn’t it, Lizzie? You like the work that we do.”

 

She takes a deep breath, lets it out again. “It’s good work,” she acknowledges.

 

The chuckle he lets out is low, intimate. “That’s not what I meant.” He leans forward into her space again, eyes bright. “You enjoy this, Lizzie. You think it’s  _fun_.” There is a tight pang in her lower stomach, she darts her gaze away. “You like playing with the criminals, you like digging into this world. And all of your brash, righteous certainty, how much of that is a lie? Who are you, Lizzie, who are you really? And what do you _want_?”

 

Her breath is coming shallow, her balance sustained only by his arm around her as she leans back. If she’s ever felt more vulnerable, more exposed, she can’t think of it.

 

She could pull up a mask, she could be dismissive, brutal, or flippant, but there’s something so unexpectedly satisfying about being open and _real_ in this moment; she feels a little like she’s been hypnotised by the rhythm of his words.

 

He must see that in her, see how his words have affected her, stripped her raw, because his voice turns achingly gentle. “You’re not a cop tonight, Lizzie, you’re a criminal.” And then, before she can get over those words, he adds, “Be _yourself_.”

 

She almost jerks back again, as though the emotional impact is a bodily blow, but he uses the moment she shifts her balance to scoop her back in, and she forces her body to relax. Relax, as he starts them moving again, allowing a gap between them once more which she is more than grateful for.  _Relax_.

 

“You’ve got two minutes to access the security door,” he mutters under his breath. “Twenty feet behind you on your right.”

 

If her nod is tight and strained, he doesn’t seem to notice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens once things really get started in the Embassy. Lizzie's too smart to get caught so quickly, after all...

There’s nothing like a plan gone wrong to bring about absolute clarity; a slowing down of motion and thoughts which suspend panic and allow snap-second decisions to be made.

 

The alarm blaring when she cracks the safe is more than enough to kick her into overdrive. She’s been betrayed; probably not by Reddington, more than likely by Madeline Pratt.

 

She’s in trouble.

 

The room has nowhere to hide. Walls on three sides, the safe on the other. She leaves the safe gaping open, taking quick, long strides to position herself behind where the door will open. Which it does, in short order.

 

There is a long, heart stopping pause where she can’t see anything, can’t tell what’s going on. Then a muffled curse, and a man lurches through the doorway and towards the safe, reaching for the radio at his belt.

 

Her hand slams down on the back of his neck with precision, and she’s already turning, already tensing for the next attack, but the doorway is empty. She blinks stupidly for a second, stunned by her good luck, before ducking out of the doorway.

 

The building plans had been detailed, and she had studied them assiduously – an automatic reaction from past experience. Still, she hadn’t had as much time with them as she would have liked, as she was expected to only need to know the short route for the planned mission.

 

When did things ever go to plan, especially when Reddington was involved?

 

Now, she slinks around corners, holding herself low and ready. There’s no point in trying to blend in here, the red dress makes her stand out a mile away and she’d have no luck playing ‘lost guest’ - especially if Madeline has sold her out.

 

Her best chance lies in not being seen at all, so she listens carefully and navigates her way gradually around to the back of the building. The nearest staircase would have been quicker, but coming back out into the main ballroom or foyer would have been an invitation to get caught.

 

She makes it to the stairway at the back, near the goods entrance. Her shoes have been left behind, shoved in a cupboard several corridors back where she hopes they won’t be discovered for many weeks. She is soft-footed, almost silent.

 

They must have found the man she felled by now, must be on her trail.

 

The guard standing at the base of the stairs is a problem. She’s positioned behind a corner several yards away from him, and he has a clear angle of view into all of the surrounding corridors. He looks alert and well trained. It’s too late to go back, to find another route, she’ll have to take him down. But he’d shoot her before she made it two feet; there’s no way she can tackle him where he is.

 

Instead, she scuffs her clutch deliberately along the wall, making a low scraping noise. She’s pulled back enough that she can’t see his reaction, and gives it to a count of twenty before biting her lip and doing it again.

 

His gun is the first thing to appear around the corner, held steady in both of his hands, but he obviously isn’t expecting anyone to be so close because she’s chopped it out of his hands before he fully takes her in. He isn’t taken down as easily as the first man, putting up a fight, and she’s _so fucking hampered by this dress_.

 

Her first goal is to get behind him as quickly as possible; she wants him to have minimal chances of actually remembering her face. It’s also a convenient position to wrap an elbow around his neck and pull hard on that arm with her other hand, choking him.

 

He slams her into the wall. It hurts.

 

Once he’s down, the commotion thankfully not having attracted any further attention, she goes straight for the stairs. She doesn’t take the gun, because that would be evidence of a different kind, and would certainly void any chance she has of explaining things away as a big mistake.

 

The top is surprisingly clear – they must have put all of their resources downstairs, somewhere behind her. Or else they’re occupied elsewhere.

 

She wonders for the first time what Reddington is doing.

 

 

\---------------

 

She finds Red, or he finds her, near the entrance she’s targeting.  He’s talking to a guard, making some gesture towards the man’s midsection which makes him look down, and she sees the punch coming long before it hits. Efficient. Her opinion of the security here is dropping ever more rapidly.

 

“Hello, Lizzie,” he says without turning, and so she doesn’t bother trying to hide her approach. As she draws abreast with him, looking down at the lolling head of the unconscious guard, he turns his head to give her a companionable smile. “Having fun?”

 

“What happened?” she asks briskly, in lieu of other answers. Like  _yes_ , or,  _I didn’t even get to steal anything_.

 

They start moving towards the exit, and she doesn’t protest when his hand comes up to rest lightly at the small of her back. It’s an automatic gesture with him, she thinks, and not currently worth the breath of castigating him over it.

 

“Red? What happened?”

 

“Madeline Pratt,” he answers succinctly. She looks at him, and thinks very loudly: that won’t cut it. Clearly her telepathy skills have made significant strides recently, because he elaborates. “The place went into lockdown when the alarm went off. I, ah, may have had something to do with that.” She glances at him. “I thought you might need a distraction. Judging from what I overheard on the radio, she’s now fingered me as organising the theft, so this must have been part of a ploy on her part to get the effigy.”

 

“The safe was empty.”

 

“Hmm, then I suspect the safe room where the guests were taken was the actual location it was being stored in. Clever girl.” His tone is a shade too admiring for Liz’s peace of mind.

 

“I told you we shouldn’t trust her,” she says, slightly heatedly.

 

“Now, now, Lizzie-“ he steers her around a doorway with the lightest pressure of his fingertips “-it was never a question of if, but  _how_ , she would betray us. And this has all worked out fine.”

 

It’s an interesting definition of fine. Certainly, she thinks, as they pull up on finding their target exit well-guarded, it is not a definition of fine that she shares. Nor one that Cooper or the team will agree with. She can already hear Ressler’s accusation of her messing this one up.

 

“We don’t even have the statue,” she hisses, and pulls away from the hand. “Stay here.”

 

Slipping back out of sight isn’t hard; his eyes start to track her but quickly snap back to monitoring the situation at the door to the outside. He’s not a bad partner, she thinks idly; she trusts him to back her up. Normally she’d be worried about him wandering off to do his own thing. If she’d told him to stay there as an FBI agent, that’s what he would have done. But she’d told him as a  _criminal_ , and as such he trusted her judgement and would wait for her to make her play.

 

It’s enough to give her a headache, and makes her feel slightly like she is a superhero with a secret identity.

 

The ceilings are higher in the room by the exit, and there are lots of boxes stacked there. Probably filled with exorbitantly expensive champagne and caviar. More importantly, there are rafters. Any self-respecting thief’s wet dream.

 

She cautiously cracks open the door first on the left going back the way they came. Empty. Good. She stands on the table and jumps to shift aside a ceiling panel. Jumps again to catch the edge of it and hoist herself up. The muscles in her arms strain and burn, and she promises herself solemnly that she will start lifting more weights in the gym.

 

After the panel slides back into place it is almost entirely dark in the space between floors, a thin glimmer of light coming from the direction she wants to go. She prays that a patrol won’t come along and find Red lurking in the corridor, not that she doubts his ability to handle himself.

 

Another panel, this time a vertical one, slides easily aside to put her at exactly the right height. There is a beam right in front of her crossing the length of the room.

 

Things move quickly from there.

 

She tears her dress off in a circle above the knee, so that she can crawl. Sneaks across the beam - getting a splinter in her knee - when the two guards are facing towards the outside of the open door.

 

Drops.

 

Red comes over to check them as she scans for any other immediate threats; finding none, she turns to find him checking _her_ over as well. His gaze, when it meets hers again, is proud, and she’s not sure how to deal with that.

 

“Let’s go,” she says, and it’s perhaps inappropriate how much pleasure she’s taking in giving him orders and actually being obeyed without argument.

 

Whatever his comment about her team earlier, it’s also becoming evident that  _he_ respects her more like this.

 

The team are occupying a surveillance van down a street a block away from the embassy, despite not being able to provide any help on the op. She and Red need to get back there, regroup, and figure out how to get Madeline to -

 

Red crowds her into an alley.

 

She swallows down her instinctive protest, because maybe he saw someone, maybe there’s a threat.

 

“You make an exceedingly good thief, Lizzie.”

 

His eyes are all smiles, and this is clearly pleasure and not business. She gives a frustrated huff and tries to push past him, but his hand slams up against the wall in front of her, his arm a barrier blocking her exit.

 

She could duck under it, if she wanted.

 

“I didn’t steal anything,” she points out instead. It’s better than the alternative, which is to say ‘this is nothing compared to my previous work,’ and ‘you should see what I can do when I’m actually prepared.’

 

She realises, with absolute horror and crystal clear self-evaluation, that she is  _just like every other criminal she’s ever profiled_ ; that she longs for recognition for her work.

 

Hot on the heels of this, Red takes half a step closer and murmurs, “Like you did in New York? In Paris?”

 

Arousal slams through her in a bolt of liquid heat which hitches her breath and makes her hands tremble. She presses them hard against the rough brick behind her to hide their betrayal, and meets Reddington’s gaze fearlessly.

 

“I heard the perpetrators of those crimes were never caught,” she says, and her voice is steady as a rock.

 

“Making them all the more impressive. Very nice work,” he says approvingly, and Jesus, her knees are going weak.

 

This is a side of herself she has never known, never faced, and it’s too late and she’s too tired for earth shifting self-realisations.

 

“We need to talk to the team,” she says, choosing to ignore his words entirely.

 

“Do we?” His voice is low and interested, and doing terrible things to her.

 

The moment balances on a knife edge, anything seeming possible.

 

And then, “Yes,” she says, and rests a hand on his arm as she ducks underneath it.

**Author's Note:**

> I read somewhere that Liz is supposed to be around 35 at the start of the series - which would put her at 16-20 for the 'almost twenty years ago' - but I have no idea if that's accurate or not.


End file.
